


Standing Outside the Fire

by Wasuremono



Category: Mother 3
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-17
Updated: 2010-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-10 15:03:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wasuremono/pseuds/Wasuremono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The life of a thief isn't easy; Duster learns that lesson young. (Spoilers for Chapter 1 of M3)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Standing Outside the Fire

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written some time before the translation patch for Mother 3, or even a standardized romanization of the names, which is why we have "Wes" and "Tatsumairi" instead of "Wess" and "Tazmily." These alternate romanizations are retained for historical value, and also because, quite frankly, I like them better.
> 
> Warning: the ending spoils Chapter 1 of M3. Then again, if you haven't played through at least the first few chapters of M3, this fic isn't like to hold much interest for you anyway.

_ Crack!_

Pain shot through Duster's leg as he hit the ground foot-first, only barely managing to slow his fall. He crumpled in a heap on the stone below him, clutching his leg and sparing a glance up at the wall staple that had failed him, half-attached to the cliffside a dozen feet above. Darn it, that spot had seemed fine...

"You idiot! You fool! What have you done? Get up, get up, time's a-wasting!" Duster's father jogged towards him and his half-completed ladder, and as he drew closer, Duster could see that Wes wasn't faking his irritation. He braced himself for the lecture to come: how much Wes expected of him, how rarely Duster fulfilled those expectations, and how, at eleven years old - _almost_ eleven years old - Duster was already a lazy, washed-up...

"C'mon, get up, boy!"

Any nerve to protest withering under Wes's glare, Duster braced himself and tried to pull himself to his feet, only to feel another jolt of agony as his ankle bent - the wrong way! - and gave out from under him. Barely managing to catch himself on his hands this time, he whimpered and bit his lip, hard. His leg throbbed with pain, he'd made a dumb mistake, and his dad was going to yell at him for sure, but crying could still only make the day worse.

As he gazed up at Wes, preparing for the tirade, he was surprised to see his father's angry expression turned to shock. "... Duster. Oh, Duster," Wes said, his voice suddenly very soft. "Let me see your leg." Duster shifted his weight as carefully as he could, his ankle letting out another little burst of pain, and he winced as Wes slipped a hand around his ankle to gingerly feel the joint. "This isn't good," his father said at last. "This ankle's shattered, and I'd bet the rest of the leg will feel that, too. You should have rolled with it the moment you felt yourself falling - the second that miserable excuse for a wall staple started to give. A thief's reflexes have to be honed to perfection!" Duster bit his lip harder. How stupid could he have been to think this wasn't coming? Maybe he was as dumb as all of that.

Just as Duster was prepared for the worst, though, Wes's face softened again, his voice returning to a gentler volume. "But I saw that you tried, and now isn't the time to lecture you on it. We need to get you home, but I just want to ask you this before we do: why were you going so fast? I know boys your age are exuberant, but it wasn't like you, and if you'd been more cautious, this wouldn't have happened. What were you thinking, son?"

Duster could only think of one answer as his father picked him up and prepared to carry him home. "I wanted to reach the top of the cliff," he said. "I wanted to watch Tatsumairi."

* * *

All his life, Duster had been curious about Tatsumairi Village: first, with the energy of a young child, wanting to touch everything, then with the growing caution of a boy able to sense something wrong. Nobody was rude to him, exactly, but it wasn't hard to tell that nobody was quite like him, either. All the children were years younger than he was, and their parents were so much younger than his dad that he'd asked him about it, innocently, one day when he was five. ("It took me a long time to settle down," Wes had said, and then he had fallen silent. Duster had let it drop; even at five, he'd learned that when his father got silent like that in response to a question, it wasn't a good idea to ask again.) The villagers were such a nice group, neat, and all alike... and then there was Duster and his father, alone in their house at the edge of things.

Before, he'd always managed to ignore the differences, but before he'd also had to keep his mind on his training. Now that he'd begun what he worried would be a long convalescence with a broken ankle, he found himself with a lot of time on his hands to stare out the window and think about the village. The view wasn't too eventful, but sometimes conversations would waft through his window. Mostly it was gossip, that secret language that took words he knew and put them into phrases he didn't begin to understand to talk about things that, it seemed, you weren't supposed to talk about.

(Once, when he was eight, he'd asked his dad why it was they talked like that. "That's one of the mysteries of women," Wes had replied. "Your mother would tell you, if she were here." And then he was silent again, and the conversation was over. Duster had decided then that all women were a mystery - just like his mother, a woman so mysterious he couldn't remember a thing about her.)

Beyond the gossip, the conversations were simple: what the bakery offered today, how the livestock was doing, whether or not they could expect rain, how quickly the children who would never be his friends were growing. Duster could understand those just fine, but he didn't always know what to make of them. Sometimes it seemed as if the villagers were repeating the same conversations over and over, more like a chant than like anything else. In Tatsumairi, every conversation was like any other... and, as the long days in his bed with his aching ankle wore on, Duster could swear that every day in Tatsumairi was the same.

But if it were that easy - if Tatsumairi was just a simple village of the same people saying the same things to each other, day after day - why was there something about it that puzzled him so? There was something about the village that just didn't sit right with him. It was neatly ordered, with all children of a certain age and all adults of a certain temperament, but... here and his father were, sticking out like sore thumbs. Part of a thief's training was to see what didn't belong, and Duster had: it was them.

Two weeks into his bed rest, Duster had finally worked up the nerve to ask his father about it. All afternoon, he waited and watched the window, until finally he saw Wes coming up the path and through the door, market basket in hand. "Ah, hello, Duster!" he said, taking out and unwrapping the bundle. "How's your ankle feeling? I've got some fresh nut bread; if you'd like me to make you some toast..."

"That's okay, Dad," said Duster, grateful for Wes's uncharacteristic good mood. "But... is it okay to ask you something?"

"You can always ask. Can't exactly guarantee you a good answer, but such is life." Wes pulled up one of the dining-table chairs to Duster's bedside and sat down. "What is it?"

"I was just wondering... about Tatsumairi..."

"What about it? There's no news, if you're wondering that, unless you've grown an interest in sheep while you've been lying there." Wes smiled a crinkly smile, and Duster had to groan inwardly.

"Dad, come _on, _you know I didn't mean _that._ I mean... we're different from them. I can see it, but I can't figure it out. Why are we this way?"

Abruptly, Wes dropped any pretense of good cheer. "You know, I knew you were going to ask this. Ever since you said you wanted to 'watch Tatsumairi,' up there... I'd tell you that it was nothing, just strange luck, but you wouldn't believe me, would you?" Duster just gave his father a long, level glance in reply. Wes sighed.

"I didn't think you would. You've noticed it, haven't you? I guess that means you'll be a better thief than I thought. I knew you'd have to be told one day, but I hoped you'd be older. Let me ask you first, boy: what does being a thief mean to you?"

Duster had to think about that for a second, looking up to the ceiling to avoid making eye contact. This was a test, he knew, and he'd have to choose words carefully. "It means... it means working hard. It means climbing, and jumping, and running, and using the tools. It means being ready to fight. It means always watching, and being aware of everything around you."

Wes harrumphed. "Good answers, but not the one I was looking for! Typical. Think hard, Duster: what does a thief do? What defines a thief?"

"A thief... steals?"

"That's more like it. A thief steals. Now, that's a valuable thing to know how to do for a lot of reasons; after all, not everyone who has something _should _have it But it's something that has its burdens, too. The people of Tatsumairi are good and generous, and they don't care too much for objects... but they still know what thieves do and what we're capable of. The price we pay is that they'll never trust us, not like they'd trust one of their own."

"But why?" Duster had begun to speak before he realized the impact of the words he was about to say, but once he had started, he couldn't stop the avalanche. "Why do we have to be thieves? Why do I have to train to be a thief, and why do you have to teach me? Some days it's so hard, so hard to do, and I see those children playing and I want to join them even if I'm too old now, and why does it have to be this way?"

For a moment, Wes was utterly silent, and Duster's heart leapt to his throat, but when his father began to speak again, his voice was barely above a whisper, and something in his face seemed old and tired beyond measuring. "Because it's the way it has to be. Without us, there'd be... well, the best way I can explain it is with a story. Imagine a dark night, with no moon and clouds over the stars - like the first time we walked in the cemetery, if you remember that." Duster nodded, feeling little icy pinpricks on his spine as he remembered how the sky had looked, and Wes continued. "Now imagine someone's built a fire, and people are huddled around it to keep warm. It's a good fire, burning nice and bright, and it makes the people warming their hands against it happy to be there. They're so happy that it's easy for them to forget where they are. But the night's still there, cold and dark, and if the people aren't careful..."

"... something'll jump out and eat them," Duster finished.

"Good boy; you're catching on. What it means is that someone has to watch for them - someone who can't stand too close to the fire, or they'll lose their focus. Someone to stand outside the circle, where they can feel the wind and the chill of the night, and watch the darkness. That's us, Duster. It's not an easy job, and I hope more than anything, as strange as it is to say, that it all comes to nothing. It's best if we're never needed. But if we are... you need to be ready, and you need to be watching, and that means you can't be like them. You can't be too close to the fire."

For a moment, there was silence. Duster's heart was still in his throat, but no longer from fear of his father's reaction; instead, he found himself choked, wordless. Finally, he managed a response, swallowing hard before he was able to speak. "We're - if anything happens, we're the ones that have to fix it? We're that important?"

"We are." Wes sighed, voice still soft and growing sadder-sounding by the word, it seemed to Duster. "If it wasn't that important... I'd find a way to make things better for you. Easier. But this is how it has to be."

It was an idea that would take Duster longer to digest than his ankle took to heal.

* * *

The night after his sixteenth birthday, Duster found himself thinking about that talk again. Had that been the turning point? Nothing had really changed on the surface; his thief training had stayed just as intense as it had ever been, with his father's verbal barbs every step of the way. Somehow, though, that talk had made the training seem sacred; whenever he'd lost his nerve since then, he'd thouht about standing in the cold night and about glowing eyes peering from the woods, waiting for him to fail. Failure had hurt when it had meant a lecture, but once he had known it could mean so much more... it hadn't made success easy, but it had always kept him trying for it.

The extra effort had helped his ankle, too, but even after five years it still just didn't feel right. Duster was starting to worry that his limp'd be with him forever, but what could he do about it? Grin and bear it, mostly, and take long walks to keep it as limber as he could. Why he'd started walking at night was a question even he couldn't answer, exactly, even when the villagers would kid him about it. But what could he tell them? The new moon, the clouds, the glowing eyes... they'd think he was even crazier than normal. After all, the most dangerous thing in the Telly Forest at night were owls - "and that's only if you look too mousy," Lighter'd told him once, with a grin.

Lost in his thoughts, Duster idly let a few leaves crunch underfoot as he made his way down the forest trail. Not even the owls were out tonight, shrouding the forest in silence aside from his footsteps (and that occasional crunched leaf - sloppy!). Gradually, his gaze moved up to the stars above, the clear night giving him a good view of the autumn constellations. Duster could still remember those early-childhood stargazing sessions, his father showing him the shapes and telling him the legends... and by the time he finished the constellations he knew, he heard his feet hit bare dirt, and he looked down to find himself at the Crossroads.

Duster stepped to the center of the Crossroads, the better to try and get his bearings again. How long had he been daydreaming, anyway? And how had he ended up here, of all places? A coincidence, maybe, but in Tatsumairi, things never seemed to happen by chance, so maybe... "No, Duster, you're thinking too much again," he told himself. "You just wandered east, that's all, because you were staring at the dumb stars!"

Still, the Crossroads always made him think too much. There was something about it that seemed to sum everything up. To the south and east, of course, was Tatsumairi - nice, safe, regular Tatsumairi - but the other two directions led strange places, places Duster couldn't quite feel comfortable about. To the north was the graveyard and, beyond it, Osohe Castle, looming over everything. Duster dreaded the day he'd eventually have to go inside, and he had no idea how the villagers managed to just ignore those crumbling ruins, day after day. To the west was Telly Forest - mostly peaceful, of course, but there were the paths to the mountains, plus that weird shrine that made him feel light-headed every time he tried to pray there. That made two directions that led to safety, and two directions that led into the unknown, where Duster had to keep watch. It'd probably be that way forever, and maybe it was best that way, but... but something about the Crossroads just kept him wondering. Duster sighed, turning towards the village to begin his walk home, and then he noticed the bell-ringer.

Duster began to walk that way, even while he cursed himself out internally. It was a pretty stupid urge, and that bell-ringer - what was his name? Leder? - had never said a word to him before, but there was something about the man's height and posture that just made Duster want to talk to him. "Hi," he said at last, knowing the silent bell-ringer wouldn't reply. "I don't mean to bother you, but I just need someone to talk to, and would it be okay if that was you?" He paused, leaving silence just long enough for it to feel like a conversation and not a monologue.

"Okay," he continued. "I really don't know what's wrong with me lately. I guess nothing really is, but sometimes I'm out here walking and it just hits me from nowhere - this strange, lonely feeling... do you understand what I mean? This feeling like Tatsumairi is so far away even though it's right here. I know there's a good reason it has to be that way, but sometimes I catch myself daydreaming even though I'm ashamed to do it. Sometimes I - I wish I could be like them."

Leder still said nothing, but Duster glanced up to notice the tall man's eyes on him. _Be careful what you wish for,_ he thought; he'd wanted someone to listen to him, and he really had found an audience. How could he stop now? "I'm sorry, I know I'm probably boring you, but this is something I can't tell Dad, and I'm not close enough to anyone else," Duster said. "Sometimes I come out here at night, and I watch the woods and the castle and the stars, and I wonder what I'm going to do if anything does happen. It's only that... I'm just Duster. I try my hardest, but there's a lot wrong with me. If any real danger befalls Tatsumairi, what'll I do about it? And meanwhile, they're so nice to me, so happy, even though I know I'm not really one of them. Is it wrong to wish I was, sometimes?" The bell-ringer remained silent, still staring at him.

"Heh. I'm sorry, this is pretty strange, isn't it? You're just easy to talk to, sir." He was, but Duster realized that didn't make what he was doing any less strange. What did Leder want to hear of his silly self-pity, anyway? "I guess I just need to keep my mood up. What is it that Dad always says? 'If you don't know what to do, dance'... no, the other one. 'God never gives us a burden too heavy for us to carry.' I hope that's true. Well... goodnight. I'm sorry to impose on you." He paused a moment, almost expecting a reply, but Leder was as silent as always, and the only way Duster could think to close things was to give a sheepish little wave before heading home.

It was strange, he realized, what had come out of his mouth. He hadn't intended to talk about any of it, and it felt as if he'd just scratched at an old scab long enough to reopen the wound. And yet... there was that bell-ringer, so tall and staring into nothing all night. Maybe, in some small way, he'd understood where Duster was coming from? "No matter," he said to himself at last as he made out the shape of his house through the darkness. "I said what I said. It is what it is."

* * *

By the time trouble actually came to Tatsumairi, Duster had grown up enough to leave the old scabs of childhood uncertainty alone, but it didn't help the ambivalence that came with testing his skills with something more than his father's temper on the line. The first time he sunk the wall staple into the cliff, there was a little thrill, but glancing back at Flint's face swept that away. Here was Flint, as solid a Tatsumairi villager as there ever was, forced out into the badlands in search of some hope; it gave Duster twinges of grief, feelings that, before the trouble had really started, he'd already failed. Wasn't Hinawa one of the ones he'd been supposed to keep safe, after all?

It wasn't until that night, standing around the campfire, that his thoughts began to settle down and he was able to look at the situation objectively. That mechanical caribou was strange, but it hadn't been that much trouble, in the end. Flint's sons were safe, if cold, and surely they'd find Hinawa soon enough -

And then Duster turned to listen to Bronson speak, and everything began to move in slow motion: Bronson's announcement, Flint's collapse, the rage, and the pain echoing through the crowd like a shockwave. Something clicked into place in Duster's head as he watched Flint being dragged away, something terrible but that fit too well to ignore. This is why his father'd kept him away from Tatsumairi all these years: because the fabric of Tatsumairi was more fragile than it seemed, and now that real danger had struck, it was unraveling. Unless this was stopped quickly, the villagers' sweet simple life would be gone for good, and only he and his father had the vision to stop it.

After they dragged Flint away and took the boys home, Duster remained long into the night, watching the fire smolder down to nothing. He'd been flooded with thoughts and emotions all day, but now his mind seemed empty, almost numb: nothing more to think, nothing more to feel. Fire and darkness... things were beginning, and things were ending, and it was his time. It really would have been best if this had never happened, but this wasn't Duster's choice, was it?

Duster stood up, ignoring the twinge of old pain from his ankle, and smothered the last half-smoldering coals of the fire. "God never gives us a burden too heavy for us to carry," he said to himself, as it if would help. "And if you don't know what else to do, dance."


End file.
